Chapter 142
[Claire's POV]
Samantha pulled the SUV into the parking lot of Maggie's Diner, a typical American family restaurant on Riverside Avenue. Red vinyl booths lined the windows, checkered tablecloths covered each table, and photographs of local high school football teams decorated the walls. The plastic menus promised comfort food and reasonable prices.
I slid into a window booth, my phone immediately gravitating to the edge of the table. One hand held the menu while my injured hand unconsciously reached for the device. The waitress arrived quickly, taking Samantha's order for two daily specials—grilled chicken sandwiches with fries and Cokes.
When the food arrived, I mechanically bit into the sandwich, but my eyes remained fixed on the phone screen. My fingers scrolled across the flip phone's keyboard, clearly browsing something. The fork tapping against my plate edge pulled me back.
"Claire." Samantha's Spanish-accented English carried gentle insistence. "You need to actually eat, not just chew twice and swallow."
I looked up, mind clearly elsewhere. "I am eating. I'm just thinking about that third buyer, why he was so rushed—"
"Thinking is fine, but your body needs fuel." She cut me off. "Marcus needs you with a clear head, not an investigator who faints from low blood sugar."
I reluctantly set down the phone and forced myself to eat several proper bites of the sandwich. But my leg bounced under the table, betraying the restless energy coursing through me. Every minute felt critical when hunting a killer.
Samantha stood to get condiments and napkins from the front counter. The moment she turned away, I grabbed my phone and quickly navigated to SilverwoodConnect, the local community forum popular in small American cities during the early 2000s. I searched the "Community Marketplace" section for recent secondhand transactions and boasting posts.
The WAP pages loaded painfully slowly. I scrolled through the low-quality mobile interface until a post title caught my eye: "New gear for spring - check out my fresh cap."
My pulse quickened. The user ID was "NightWatcher_03," posted three days ago. I clicked through to see a selfie—someone wearing that gray baseball cap, but their face obscured by the brim's shadow. The low-resolution phone screen made details difficult, but it was enough.
I forced myself to stay calm, though my fingers trembled slightly with excitement. I quickly clicked on the user profile page. The account had been registered just this month. Beyond the hat-boasting post, there was only one other entry from five days ago: "Morning coffee in my backyard - perfect start to the day."
The accompanying photo showed a garden corner—white wooden fence, black wrought-iron bench, red brick pavement. I squinted at the blurry image on my 1.5-inch screen, barely making out the background: a Victorian-style peaked roof and decorated window frames.
I used my phone's camera to photograph the screen several times. The quality would degrade further, but at least I'd preserve the evidence.
Samantha returned with ketchup and mustard, immediately noticing my posture and flushed cheeks. Her professional instincts kicked in without hesitation. She slid into the seat beside me, angling to see my screen. "What did you find?"
I handed her the phone, explaining rapidly. "This might be a post from the hat buyer. Look at this backyard photo—white fence, Victorian house, red brick ground. Have you seen this combination anywhere in Silverwood?"
Samantha took the phone, using her finger to zoom the image as much as the flip phone's limited function allowed. She remained silent for several seconds, brow furrowed in concentration. Then she looked up, eyes sharpening.
"This style... it's uncommon in Silverwood. White wooden fence with Victorian architecture, plus red brick courtyard..." She paused. "I remember an old residential area on the south side, built around the 1920s. It's a historic preservation district. Maybe ten to twenty houses like this, many still have original courtyard designs. The area's called Southridge, between Maple Street and Oak Avenue."
She pulled a folded street map of Silverwood from her bag and pointed to Southridge's approximate location. "Here, south-southwest. If I'm remembering correctly, that area does have about a dozen households with similar courtyard layouts."
"You're familiar with the area?" I asked.
"The Coleman family once considered investing in property there," she explained. "I familiarized myself with neighborhoods where my employers might have interests."
This geographic identification narrowed our search from the entire city to roughly a dozen homes. The investigation suddenly became far more feasible.
"But the houses in that area are relatively spread out," Samantha added, "and many are obscured by large trees. If it gets dark, identification will be difficult. We have maybe ninety minutes of daylight left."
I practically jumped from my seat. I wrapped the remaining sandwich in a napkin—I'd eat on the road. Samantha was already standing, pulling a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet and placing it on the table, signaling no need to wait for change.
As we walked toward the parking lot, I spoke rapidly. "Ten to twenty houses. If we spend one minute at each, plus driving time, we can complete an initial survey before dark."
Samantha opened the car door, responding calmly. "Not one minute stops. We drive through first. One pass to mark all houses matching the photo characteristics, then decide our next move."
Once in the car, Samantha fastened her seatbelt and turned to me. "If we find a highly suspicious target, we must contact Marcus and Sarah first. No solo action. This person might be connected to Benjamin's death. He's dangerous."
I nodded agreement. Multiple investigation experiences had taught me caution. But my hand gripped the phone tightly, knuckles white from the pressure, revealing my inner tension and excitement.
After we reached consensus, Samantha started the engine and drove toward Southridge in the southern part of the city.
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The SUV entered Southridge, where roads narrowed and were flanked by tall maples and oaks. Early March leaves were just budding. Evening sunlight filtered through branches, creating dappled patterns on the pavement. The houses here were noticeably older than elsewhere in the city—mostly two or three-story Victorian buildings with elaborate cornice decorations and stained glass windows.
Samantha reduced speed to fifteen miles per hour, slowly driving down Maple Street. I sat in the passenger seat, face nearly pressed against the window, rapidly scanning each house's yard.
The first three houses were quickly eliminated. The first was a brick-red rowhouse with black iron fencing instead of white wood. The second had a white fence but concrete pavement instead of red brick. The third had no fence at all, just an open lawn.
"Wait, that one!" I suddenly said.
Samantha braked. I pointed to a light yellow Victorian house on the right. It had white wooden fencing around the front yard. Through the fence, I could see red brick pathways and a black wrought-iron bench in the corner—exactly matching the photo.
Samantha drove slowly past the house. I quickly recorded: "237 Maple Street." I noticed all the curtains were drawn, and the mailbox was stuffed with uncollected advertisements and mail, some already rain-soaked.
"Mail's been piling up at least three or four days," Samantha said quietly. "Either the owner's out of town, or..." She didn't finish, but we both understood the other possibility—the owner was deliberately avoiding outside contact.
"We continue," I said, noting "237 Maple Street - highly suspicious" in my notebook. "See if there are other matches."
Samantha nodded and continued the slow drive forward.
Over the next fifteen minutes, we found three other partially matching houses—one with a white fence but modern ranch-style architecture, one with similar courtyard layout but off-white rather than pure white fencing, and one completely matching but clearly occupied (laundry drying in the yard, children's toys visible).
After surveying Maple Street, Oak Avenue, and part of Birch Lane, I circled "237 Maple Street" in my notebook. "This is the most suspicious. Mail piling up, curtains closed, and perfectly matches the photo characteristics."
I pulled out my flip phone and dialed Marcus's number. He answered on the second ring.
"Marcus, we may have found the hat buyer's address. Southridge area, 237 Maple Street. The exterior matches his online photo exactly, but there are signs the owner hasn't been home for days or is deliberately hiding."
Marcus's voice was serious over the line. "Good work, Claire. But don't approach that house. Don't knock or attempt entry. Observe from a safe distance and wait. I'm sending Sarah and Mike for backup. Give me thirty minutes."
I hung up and nodded to Samantha. She parked the car at the end of Maple Street, in a position obscured by two large oak trees. From here, we had a clear view of 237's front door without drawing attention.
I stared at that light yellow house. The setting sun's afterglow gilded its peaked roof in gold, but the closed curtains made it look like a giant beast with closed eyes.
"I feel like the answer is in that house," I said quietly.